


Remember?

by drjohnhwatson



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Just in one chapter! It’s what you’d expect., M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:22:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29929920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drjohnhwatson/pseuds/drjohnhwatson
Summary: John Watson suffers a knock on the head and forgets everything important to him.  Will he regain his memory—and in time?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 13





	1. Then It All Went Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson grapples with the after-effects of a head injury and learns of his Famous Flatmate.

Slowly blinking awake, I winced at a fierce pain, retreating back to darkness momentarily as I fought off the wave of dizziness that welled up within me upon my return to consciousness. Why did my head hurt so? Had I bumped it? Had I not actually been sleeping but rather knocked senseless? By what, or by whom?  
  
Cautiously I opened my eyes once more and slowly glanced about myself, making certain not to move too quickly in order to avoid a fresh dose of misery as I took in my surroundings.

I lie in a small, comfy bed in a neatly ordered and cosy room. A fellow sat in a chair next to me, slumped over and leaning onto my bed as he slept in a doze, and I felt a small twinge of guilt at waking him before I reached out and shook him gently by the shoulder.  
  
“Halloa...halloa there!” I said, and he glanced up, dark eyes bleary and hair wild from the way that he had slept. Immediately, however, he broke into a weary grin, reaching his hand out to pat my leg energetically.  
  
“I knew that you would recover swiftly. Have you a headache? I would assume so from the crack you received!”  
  
“So...I was struck, then?” I wondered, fingertips drifting to my right temple in order to gently probe the painful blob that greeted me.  
  
“Indeed, and in rather a low fashion,” he replied with a brief scowl, “But you need not worry as the law has taken hand of the situation now. At any rate, I should say get some rest and you’ll be up in no time!”  
  
I nodded at him. “Thank you, doctor,” I said, and when he laughed at me, I looked at him in curiosity. “What is so amusing?”  
  
“Doctor indeed!” he continued to chuckle, and I frowned at him.  
  
“You are not a doctor?” I asked, and his laughter abruptly cut off.  
  
“Watson, I do not like this joke.”  
  
“I am not joking!” I cried defensively. “You could be a postman for all I know; I only assumed that since you were here, at my bedside, that you were a physician!”  
  
“ _You_ are the doctor, though you could hardly tend to yourself whilst unconscious!” he declared, and I blinked, furrowing my brow at what he meant me to believe.  
  
“And you?”  
  
The fellow appeared nervous at my words. “Please do tell me you are trying to pull a prank upon me for some poor previous behaviour on my part.”  
  
“I assure you I have not the slightest idea as to your occupation,” I said, watching horror trace quickly across his features.  
  
“Tell me my name, Watson. Tell me my _name_ ,” he urged fervently, and I snorted.  
  
“You ask a great deal of me.”  
  
At this the man sat back hard in his seat, and then he suddenly leaned quickly forward, taking hold of my face with calloused fingers. Naturally I flinched away from his unanticipated touch, and he withdrew his hands with an injured expression, flopping heavily once more away from both the bed and myself.  
  
“I...if it’s any consolation, you look as though you ought to be familiar,” I said kindly, in an attempt to soothe his obviously ruffled feathers, and he bitterly laughed as he ruffled his already messy locks.  
  
“Do I, Watson? How reassuring,” he muttered, and I ignored his sniping tone.  
  
“What is your name, then?” I asked in a decision that I ought make small talk with him, as he had clearly taken time out of his day in order to see that I was faring well.  
  
He shook his head. “My name is...Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
I smiled. “Hello, Mr. Holmes.”  
  
He winced. “Do not call me that.”  
  
“Er...Sherlock?” I frowned, and his scowl deepened.  
  
“I loathe my Christian name. Simply call me Holmes.”  
  
“That is more informal than I would like,” I admitted reluctantly, and he fell forward onto the bed in a sign of exasperation before sitting up again quickly.  
  
“Precisely! Good Lord, Watson, can you really not recall a _single_ thing? We have known each other for years; you have been at my side nearly the entire time. We have gone near and far with one another! You are the whetstone that I sharpen my mind upon; you are my chronicler, my Boswell, my most...my dearest friend!”  
  
“I do apologise for allowing myself to get bumped upon the head,” I said with some snark, tired and in pain as I was.  
  
Holmes stared at me for a long moment, his eyes piercing through me, and then he nodded almost imperceptibly, catching his bottom lip between his teeth before letting it go. “Of course, Watson,” he said, voice soft, and I wondered what went through mind of this man I both knew and did not know.

He cleared his throat, gazing at me with an expression I could not easily crack. “You must be hungry,” he said after a long hesitation, and I shifted beneath the blankets, better positioning myself against the headboard.  
  
“I…suppose I am,” I agreed, and he promptly produced a plate from the top of the nightstand, offering it to me enticingly until I took it from him. I prodded the eggs and found upon testing them that they had long since gone cold; the ham awaited me in a similar state, and I glanced up at this Holmes in slight dismay.  
  
“These are cold.”  
  
“Well, yes, I should think so; the food was prepared for me as we did not know when you would awake. I thought I might give it to you as the woman truly detests when I waste food.” He waved his hand casually as I began to nibble at the toast.  
  
With Holmes staring at me rather intently, as I though I might be little more than an animal on display in some zoo, I decided to continue a conversation in order that I might feel less awkward. “What is it that you do, Holmes? You have not yet elaborated on yourself,” I mused, brushing crumbs from the blanket and my shirt-front.  
  
Holmes pulled a face before brightening. “Why don’t you tell me what it is that I do?”  
  
I was at once annoyed. “I just told you that—“  
  
He silenced me with a wave. “I do have ears, Watson, as do you. And eyes to match—why not observe me, and tell me the conclusions that you reach?”  
  
I was intrigued by this, and I thought for a moment before asking that he hold out his hand.  
  
“Why, Watson?” he wondered even as he stretched out his right limb obediently, flipping his palm up to face me as I took his hand and drew it nearer to my eye in order to better scrutinise it.  
  
“You can learn a good deal about what a man does from his hand,” I said automatically, without thought, and caught a fleeting smile as it passed across Holmes’s face.  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
I peered over his slender fingers, noting the discolouration blotching his skin and the plaster placed on two fingertips, and I traced over the lines etched into his palm, thinking for a moment before meeting his curious gaze.  
  
“You deal with chemicals, judging from the stains to your fingers.”  
  
“So you believe…?”  
  
“That you are a…scientist?” I posited hesitantly, and judging by the way that he knitted his brow together, I gathered that I was incorrect.  
  
“I use chemicals—at times—in my line of work, but I do not deal with them entirely. Come, Watson; what else do you _observe?_ ”  
  
I admit I could see nothing that would tell me what his occupation might be. His clothing was rumpled, and I could not tell if his state of dress arose from him sleeping in his clothing or if he naturally dressed in such a manner.  
  
“Are you a…teacher?” I wondered, and he let loose a hiss of air in annoyance.  
  
“Now you are simply guessing; I do not _like_ guesses.”  
  
“I can tell from your appearance very little as to how you conduct yourself,” I sniffed as he reached into a pocket of his jacket, producing a small case and waving it enticingly in front of my face. I took it, curious, and opened it as he observed me.  
  
“Well? What do you make of it, Watson?”  
  
I was confronted by small, finely curved tools and I glanced quickly up again. “I say that you are a burglar!” I remarked, aghast at his amusement.  
  
“A good assumption,” he agreed, and I puffed with pride until he continued, “but incorrect all the same.”  
  
I watched as he once more rummaged in his jacket, and I tapped my fingers impatiently on the bedcover, wishing that he would simply tell me instead of having me run through a list of possible choices. “I did not search your clothing,” I pointed out, and at my words he met my gaze for a moment.  
  
“No, and perhaps you ought to have,” he responded, surprising me; had he spoken with a salacious undertone?

 _No, of course not._  
  
“Here, Watson,” he said, and I was at once bewildered when he handed me a small tape measure and magnifying glass. I glanced at him using the glass and then peered at my fingers until he made a noise of frustration. Lowering the instrument, I found myself looking into his dark eyes.  
  
“I admit I am lost; could you not simply tell me?” Leaning back against my pillow, I handed the tools over to the man.  
  
“I am a consulting detective; the only one in existence. I take what cases clients present to me, though I can be choosy if what I am presented with is trivial, and the law has come to me in more than a _few_ instances.”  
  
“So you are famous, then?” I wondered aloud, and something in my tone wiped the smile from his face as he picked up a sheaf of papers from the nightstand, fidgeting with them before dropping them flapping onto my chest.  
  
“If I am, it is mainly from your efforts.” Holmes stood, and I straightened slightly in bed, not yet willing to let him go.  
  
“But wait, I—”  
  
“If you need anything, just shout,” he called over his shoulder, and he shut the door before I could say another word.

* * *

  
The man left me with a collection of papers that comprised a short story, and as I shuffled through them I recognised the handwriting to be my own. The story was intriguing; a woman’s sister turned up dead and she sought Holmes’s aid as she was to be married shortly and feared her blustering stepfather. Holmes accepted the case and I, seemingly naturally, accompanied him. Holmes revealed in the end that the stepfather trained a snake to kill his step-children in order to continue receiving money from his late wife’s estate, and it was this very snake that afforded the villain in question a lethal bite.  
  
After pulling a dressing gown about me I exited my bedroom, stumbling into the sitting room and holding the papers aloft, ready to question Holmes about the case. It all seemed _familiar_ to me, but I could not discern whether I actually remembered the incident or if I simply imagined it from the words that I perused. I opened my mouth in order to speak with the man, but the words died away on my lips as I realised that he was otherwise preoccupied.  
  
He sat, leaning back in his seat in an almost lazy fashion, and his eyes were shut as he drew a bow slowly across a violin. I do not know how long I stood and simply watched him, mesmerised at the notes that he coaxed forth, and I frowned, trying to place the sweet little tune that he played. I had heard it before—had heard it numerous times, judging from the degree of familiarity that I felt—yet I could not place the composer. Mozart? Doubtful. Vivaldi? No again.  
  
When he played to completion, Holmes lowered the violin and relaxed deeper into his seat, speaking without even opening his eyes. “Watson? Finished reading already, are you?”  
  
I gave a start as he cracked open one eye in order to stare at me. “How did you know that I was here?”  
  
“A variety of reasons, Watson, not the least of which being that I could smell you,” he remarked, now toying with the bow and missing the flush that sprang into my cheeks in the process.  
  
“Well, forgive me for being malodorous,” I snapped, and he reached out to prod my midsection gently with his bow.  
  
“I did not mean that; what I meant was…” he stopped, and a strange expression crossed his face before he shrugged, leaving me to wonder at his words. “I believe you have questions for me?”  
  
“Indeed,” I said, and I tossed the manuscript to him, “Do I do this often?”  
  
“Throw things at me? Watson, you would be surprised at how frequently I have found a book or shoe chucked at me from your quite capable hands—”  
  
“No, no!” I interrupted as he smirked up at me, flicking through the pages with little interest, eyes skimming the pages too quickly to read any words, “I meant how often do I write…stories?”  
  
Holmes snorted, rolling his eyes as he set the document carefully on a tower of nearby newspapers. “You do it all the time, old boy, even if I would rather that you refrained.”  
  
“You wish that I wouldn’t write about you?” I asked, curiously feeling a little hurt at his words; I believed the writing to be quite good, all biases aside.  
  
“Ah, I have landed myself in a tricky situation,” Holmes murmured, leaning forward in order to steeple his fingers together to place them to his chin. “I can see that you think I find you to be a less than satisfactory writer, and I—”  
  
“How do you know that?” I exclaimed, astonished, “You have read my mind!”  
  
At these words, a genuine smile lingered on Holmes’s lips. “Some things never change, Watson. Let me assure you, your writing is fine. I suppose it is _good,_ but I have little use of it personally. Let me explain: I believe that my cases, when written down, could serve as useful tools in _instruction._ One could learn how to better use analysis, to use details from their surroundings, to observe and to conclude. Understand?”  
  
“Yes, of course.”  
  
“While I would be wrong to say that you do not render my cases faithfully, I must point out that you focus less on the aspects that I should like to see and more, rather upon the…the _human_ aspects; you sensationalise it, Watson. You romanticise my work, so that while I have little use of your writing, the public seems to embrace it well enough.”  
  
Uncertain what to say in response, I absorbed his words as he turned away from me, reaching lazily for his pipe. He had lit it and curled up more comfortably in his seat before I ventured to speak again. “That song that you were just playing…”  
  
“Yes? Did you enjoy it?” he asked, and though I could sense he tried to impart a feeling of nonchalance, I could tell that he was most eager to hear my honest opinion on the piece.  
  
“I did indeed, but I was curious as to who composed it…”  
  
Holmes blinked at my response, fighting back a sour look. “I did, of course. It is one of my little compositions; you know how—” he broke off, looking a little lost as he searched for how to continue. “I like to play whenever I am attempting to work out some small problem; I vent out my frustration upon the violin. You...you still enjoy it, do you?”  
  
“Yes, of course!” I said, reassuring the man for a second time before giving pause. “I liked it well enough before…” I knocked gently on my head, and he laughed unexpectedly.  
  
“The first time that you heard me playing it, you badgered at me until I did it again for you; it was a simple little thing that came to me while I mused to myself—I hardly know what it is that I play while I ponder over a case. I did as you requested, however, and as you seemed rather thrilled with it, I often obliged you after a long day at your practise or after a rather successful case.”  
  
“Ah,” I sat in the seat next to him with a nod, “that explains why it felt so familiar to me.”  
  
“Familiar? You find it familiar? Well, it is of little surprise. You are the sentimental sort, after-all, and I did play it the night that we first—“ Holmes abruptly halted his speech, turning a peculiar shade of red and quickly averting his eyes from mine in order to burn a hole in the tiger rug on the floor before us.  
  
“‘The night we first’ what? Holmes, what were you going to say? _Holmes!_ ”  
  
“We first met,” he responded weakly after a long pause, and I frowned at him.  
  
“That doesn’t make any sense, Holmes; you said that I heard you playing it when working at one of your cases, so logic would dictate that it was—where are you going?”  
  
“I realise that I have been neglecting just such a case in sitting here speaking with you, Watson. If you’ll excuse me—”  
  
“Wait—!” We stood as one and I reached desperately out, managing to catch his hand in both my own. He immediately halted as though he hit a brick wall, and I wondered why the grasp of his hand in mine felt familiar to me.  
  
“Watson?” He turned to look up at me, a peculiar note of hopefulness in his voice.  
  
“Holmes, I am…utterly lost,” I admitted, and his shoulders slumped at my words. Though he smiled at me, I observed the warmth did not extend itself to his eyes.  
  
“I won’t abandon you, my dear fellow.” He loosed his hand from my hold in order to pat my shoulder, gripping it for a moment longer than necessary before turning on his heel.

Alone now in the room I sighed, moving to the window in order to watch him depart the premises.

He paused below the window, turning in order to glance up, and he held my gaze for a breath before scurrying off quickly with only a fleeting second look, leaving me to grapple with my mixed thoughts and jumbled emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wrote this—holy shit—eleven(!!) years ago and am finally moving it onto here. Time flies, no? This is all finished, by the way. I just need to fix up a few things.
> 
> This fic, by the way, will be a melding of, like, Ritchie Holmes and Canon Holmes. I’ll take cases from canon and such.
> 
> Also I’m aware head injuries don’t work this way, but it’s fiction, so. Much like how TV shows portray people dropping instantly from chloroform when it takes several minutes, or getting hit on the head and staying unconscious for a half hour or hour or longer, however much time the Hero Needs, when instead one generally will pop up quickly after such a bonking.
> 
> I have no beta and just do this for fun. Also I have to do all this on my phone as I have no computer, alas, so if anything looks wonky, my apologies.
> 
> Hope you like it!!


	2. The Unfeeling Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes takes on a new client.

Returning to my apparent routine proved a trifle challenging. I could not recall the routes of those unable to make it out of their houses to call upon me, and I could not recollect the names of those that did stop by to see me. I would have been utterly at a loss if it had not been for Holmes.

The man volunteered himself to supply me with the information that I needed and to direct me rather helpfully in the right direction, often accompanying me and telling me some small, amusing anecdotes along the way. More often than not I would find that he slipped his arm through my own at some point along our perambulation, yet I refrained from speaking on it as he appeared wholly unconscious of how he conducted himself.

Indeed, the man seemed unwilling to let me out of his sight, and at first I chalked it up to my injury. When I healed sufficiently, however, he continued to stick close, watching me carefully; if my eye ever caught his, he would look quickly away, usually remarking on the weather or some case that he had read about in the ‘papers. At times he plopped down in front of me on the floor, leaning back against me and waving his correspondence up at me, ordering brusquely that I should read it to him. Or, as had happened on more than one occasion, he draped himself atop the arm of the seat that I rested in and leaned against me, trying to read over my shoulder until I snapped at him to get off me.

He always looked wounded, as if I had done him a personal injury in growling at him, and every time I would wonder if I might have been too harsh in chiding him—until I realised that _he_ invaded _my_ space; I could not understand it!

In the short span since my injury, I had seen him in conversation with a good many people. With our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, he was almost hostile at some junctures and playful at others. In his dealing with the police force he responded with nothing but contempt and a slight touch of pride, telling me to note this or remember that, forcing me back into my previous role quite easily. With clients he was aloof, often appearing to not pay the least bit of attention while leaving me to deal with the weepy, inconsolable women that came our way as he offered them an uncertain wave of dismissal.

But with me he was entirely different; it was as though I held a jewel up to the light and could see the light refracting off its many surfaces; he could be kind, he could be rude, he could be humorous and, more often than not, he could be entirely infuriating.

“Thinking of me?” he trilled slightly, and when I gaped, at him he laughed.

“How do you…?”

“I have told you, Watson; your thoughts can be quite apparent,” he said, before reaching up to touch his finger lightly to my brow. “When you are pondering _me_ your brow tends to wrinkle right _here,_ which I have helpfully marked with my finger to illustrate my point.”

“That is a _lie—_ and get your hand off my face!” I slapped at his hand and he withdrew it, looking pained before frowning.

“I do wish you would hurry and retrieve your memories; this is beginning to frustrate me.”

“ ‘Beginning to frustrate me!’ ” I cried, astounded at his words as he simply blinked at me. “You would think that _you_ had lost your memories! What the devil is there for _you_ to be frustrated at?!”

After I smacked his hand away, Holmes took a few steps from me—adding a good deal of space between us—and the sudden, extra room was unusual. “Why, I am frustrated with _you,_ Watson.”

I rolled my eyes toward the heavens, looking for the patience not to throttle the man. “How on earth can you be frustrated with me? I’ve done nothing—I should be frustrated with _you!_ ”

Holmes ignored my remark. “Watson—”

“Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson…they all say that, apart from confusing a person’s name here or an address there, I am quite my old self.”

“They do not know you as I do,” Holmes said confidently, and once more he roused me to annoyance. The man was cocksure; because he had the eyes of an eagle he believed, at times, that he knew and judged _everything_ in a certain situation.

“Why are you so confident, Holmes? You are my friend, I can see that—you have been most helpful to me, and I certainly appreciate it, but why do you think that you ought to know me better than _anyone_ else? Is it because you are a detective?”

Holmes smiled slightly at my words. “No, but I could tell you a bit about your habits that would surprise you, just from my observational skills.”

“Well, then, I can’t—Holmes!”

Holmes reached up to once again touch my face and at this I recoiled, instinctively pulling away from him even as he left his hand suspended in air with a bewildered expression wreathing his face. “See, Watson, this is precisely what I mean. I simply reach out to touch you, and you act as though I mean to strike you!”

“You touch me _constantly!_ ” I hissed, and when I leaned toward him in anger he dipped away from me, trying to avoid my fury. “Stop touching me, Holmes! Don’t lean on me, don’t rest on me, don’t grab me—leave me be!”

At once I realised that I said too much—with too much heat, rather—when Holmes’s shoulders slumped and he seemed to deflate slighty, lowering his gaze from mine.

I sighed, anger leaving me as quickly as it had come; perhaps he acted as he did simply due to one of his quirks of personality—who was I to shout, especially after the lengths he had gone to aid me since my injury? His actions could merely be a part of his nature; it explained why he acted without thinking, but I still could not understand his nearly irrational attachment to me.

“I did not mean—”

“What, Watson? You did not mean what? I am not a fool; I understand you do not want me to _touch_ you,” he said, and as he spoke he lifted his hands into the air, the expression in his eyes unreadable as he watched my reaction.

“Holmes—”

“Don’t worry; I promise to abide by your request,” he muttered with a slight bow before bustling ahead of me, and as I watched him go, I wondered at the strange aching he left me to nurse.

* * *

I glowered irritably from my seat at Holmes, watching as he rolled up his shirt cuff and pressed the needle to his skin. Were I sitting but a bit closer, I would no doubt be able to catch sight of the numerous scars marring his pale flesh and I fidgeted in my chair, unable to keep my quiet any longer as he sunk back with a sigh.

“Which is it today, morphine or cocaine?”

He barely glanced up at me before holding the morocco case out to me with a light wiggle. “It is cocaine; care to indulge?”

“I would _not,_ thank you!” I cried, appalled, and he shrugged, relaxing once more as though he possessed not a single bone in his body. “I cannot sit by and watch you do this, Holmes! I am not only your friend but a doctor and it—“

“It is mental stimulation for when I lack cases,” he murmured, hardly able to be bothered with engaging me in conversation and I at once frowned all the more, not appeased by his excuse.

“But what happens when you come to a drought, Holmes? When you do not have a case for weeks—for _months?_ You have said yourself that you can be rather choosy with clients.”

By way of response, Holmes gestured to the pre-existing marks already lining his arm, and I grit my teeth at the sight. “But is it worth it, Holmes? You could destroy your precious gift with that brief stimulation, never mind the physical harm and the black mood that you face afterward!”

“You worry needlessly, Watson; I know precisely what I am doing and, to me, the effects provide me with enough benefit to justify the action,” he remarked, shutting his eyes to me, and as I opened my mouth to continue my argument to convince him to give up his destructive habit, Mrs. Hudson entered, bearing a card upon a brass salver.

Holmes reached up, barely willing to make an effort to right himself in a decent position, and he scanned the card with furrowed brow before shrugging. “I do not recognise the name…ah well. Send her up, Mrs. Hudson.”

As the landlady exited, I made to follow her, stopping when Holmes tsked. “No, Doctor—I’d prefer that you stayed here.”

I obeyed, and I watched as he stood, drawing a seat closer for the client to sit before dropping back into his own chair as the woman made her entrance. 

In an experience extending over many nations and three separate continents, I have never looked on a face as fair, or quite so kind. She was a slip of a thing, blonde, and dressed simply but tastefully. While she tried to put forth a semblance of composure, I noted that she trembled slightly.

“My father disappeared in December of ‘78–nearly ten years ago. He was senior captain of a regiment, and he had obtained a twelve months leave to return home. He telegraphed me to tell me that he arrived safe and asked that I come to meet him immediately. When I reached the hotel at which he stayed, I was informed that he had indeed taken up lodging there, but that he had gone out before and not returned. I waited the entire day for him, but when he did not come back, I put out advertisements. I still have not heard a word from him.”

I looked to Holmes, surprised at this little tale and found him listening intently, fingers to his lips as he mused over the woman’s words. “Go on,” he said, and the woman needed little prompting to continue her story.

“Six years ago, there was an advertisement in the paper stating that it would be to my advantage should I come forward. The family that I had just entered as governess urged that I ought listen, and the very same day I received a small box in the post, with no writing upon it so that I might identify from where it originated. Upon opening it, I found a rather large pearl, and every year at the same date I have received a pearl of like quality, and I have had them appraised to be of some considerable value.”

The woman produced a box and showed us pearls of a quality that matched her description. She next handed Holmes a letter that she had received that very day, and Holmes mused over it, remarking on several notes of interest. The letter requested that she meet at the theatre in the evening with a few friends of hers, and Holmes handed it back to her, apparently pleased with the little problem that had presented itself.

“Well, if we are to accompany you, it would do for you to be here at six and no later,” he said, and the woman stood, thanking the both of us and glancing at each of us in turn before exiting with a swish in her step.

I stood, moving quickly to the window so that I could watch her walk down the street until she melded with the crowd. “What a very attractive woman!” I exclaimed, and Holmes lit his pipe, leaning back.

“Is she? I did not observe.”

“You really are an automaton—a calculating machine. There is something positively inhuman in you at times,” I replied in my astonishment, immediately feeling a twinge of regret at the reproach that had slipped unbidden from my lips.

At my words he winced, and even with the slight stupor from the drug that he indulged in, his dark eyes sharpened. “Yes, Watson. A machine. I know—I have seen what it does to people, to allow emotion to cloud reason. To allow love...to allow any sort of fond regards to get in the way of logic.”

Affection! The man was positively distant to nearly everyone; what did he know of affection? “Who was she?” I asked instead, peering out the window in the hopes that I might catch a second glimpse of her, and Holmes did not answer me. I turned to look at him. “Holmes?”

He stared steadily at me, and a peculiar expression crossed his face; it looked nearly like anger, but I could not think of anything that I said that could rouse him to such feeling.

“Well, Holmes?”

“She is my new client: Miss Mary Morstan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m taking bits from canon, here and there. This would be from The Sign of the Four!
> 
> I wanted to put up on Friday to do a Monday/Friday thing, but got a bit lazy. I’m gonna try to do another Monday and then actually do the one after that on Friday.
> 
> I hope people like this...I think you guys do!
> 
> See you soon!!


End file.
